


Through Dark to Light

by cynicalwerewolf



Series: Wormholes, Spaceships, and Cloud Pine Branches [2]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicalwerewolf/pseuds/cynicalwerewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Politics are such fun. And when they involve the politics of multiple entities, a relationship that goes against the cultural expectations, and a human-daemon pair that can't do anything painlessly and easily, even recovery, things get...troubled. Or in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hegan Hub

**Author's Note:**

> I promised some explanation of concepts. Angst and more plot than I had anticipated wanting snuck in.

As Miles entered the spaceship, he breathed a sigh of relief. The songs of the stars were close on board a ship, not distorted as on a station. They were altered on planetary surfaces, but most planets had wild songs of their own. A space station’s song was uninspired and regimented, and while ship songs had those same qualities the lighter shielding on ships made the songs of the stars clearer; especially with the amplifying properties of the silk he was wearing. Sitting next to a viewport, he asked Sularenimon, who had moved from his shoulder to his lap, “So, do you know what excuse the Council’s using this year to try and disinherit me?”

“Ah, yes. It is that time of year, isn’t it,” the raven daemon said. “Probably your relationship with Gregor. They can’t dethrone Gregor without instant civil war, and only Count Vortrifani wants that, but they aren’t happy about you and him being in a relationship.”

“It’s not like they’re going to be stuck with me forever,” Miles muttered. “I promised I’d step down in favor of a non-witch son, not that my sons are likely to be witches, after fifty years.”

“Miles,” Sularenimon said, “Why are you expecting logic from politicians? Besides, I know you still prefer Barrayaran politics to Betan politics.”

“That’s because Barrayaran politics and politicians are honest and efficient, even if I want to beat them around their heads for some of their prejudices,” Miles grimaced.

“Barrayaran politicians are efficient?” was asked in Nalaresti’s soft soprano. “That’s news to me, although I will grant you their basic honesty. Mostly.”

Even in his irritation, Miles found himself smiling as he turned to face Gregor and Nalaresti. “Gregor. I thought you were buried in treaty negotiations, invitations, requests, and other paperwork.

“I was,” came Gregor’s response, “But Nalaresti said she’d bite me if I spent another minute today on paperwork, and your father has everything under control in the Hub, so I came to see if I could get you in a more reasonable mood so that you don’t insult any more ambassadors.”

“Ah, you heard about what I said to the Betan ambassador,” Miles said with a grimace.

“Yes. Informing it that any rational person would prefer any other form of government to a system where any lunatic with a pulse and a daemon was given a voice equal to that of rational people was hardly the most diplomatic response.” Giving him a sharp look, Gregor continued, “May I inquire what you were thinking? I’ve already had demands for Admiral Naismith’s swift return for therapy from the Betan government.”

“And your response?” Miles asked, hoping for more time to put his thoughts in order.

“That we are pleased to have…what do you think Admiral Naismith should be to Lord Vorkosigan?” Gregor sat down on the opposite end of the seat as Miles. The seat was as large as a couch, so the distance was informing Miles how displeased Gregor was better than the irritation and concern radiating from the other man did. Miles should have been more worried, but the concern was for him and Sularenimon rather than the plans they might have damaged, and underneath was love, deep yet passionate. It was soothing, especially after…his mind shied away from that thought.

“Cetagandan clone,” said Sularenimon, promptly. Under the weight of three gazes, he began to explain, “He can’t be a brother, because that would raise too many questions about what happened and where he was all these years, we don’t want to admit that Lord Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith are the same person, and whatever the Cetagandans say to deny it, they’re hardly a credible source at the moment.”

“But we wait until people ask, and then give them as little detail as we can get away with,” Miles said, picking up where his daemon had left off. “If they make up a nice dramatic story, they’ll believe it and we won’t have to try and convince them of it.”

“And how do you expect to explain that Admiral Naismith and Lord Vorkosigan have the same species and sex of daemon, in addition to both being witches given the unlikelihood of those being the same?” Nalaresti asked. She didn’t sound argumentative, more as though she were testing the weaknesses of the story.

Miles shrugged, “If anyone knows how to get the probabilities right, it would be the Cetagandans. They care about what happens to their experiments. Unlike the Jacksonians.” He turned to Gregor, and said, “That’s part of what I was thinking about. Their lack of caring for the products of their research, that any failures to produce the right daemon in experiments lead to the eventual destruction of the product in experimentation. Cavilo mentioned in passing that a Jacksonian witch looking to expand her already long life could require several clones made before she found one with both the genetic and the residual potential, and that a male-witch could possibly require fifty or more. While I was brooding over that the Betan Ambassador cornered me, and that was when I realized…”

“What did you realize?” Gregor asked after a short pause. All anger had gone out of his voice, and the concern and love had come to the surface. Miles jumped slightly when Gregor moved next to him and put his arms around both him and Sularenimon while Nalaresti laid her head on his lap. Even with the depressing subject matter, he let out a sigh of contentment at the love he could have felt even with his full House uniform on. 

“The Betan Mental Health Board destroys souls. Not the way Hollowing does, but through the destruction of a person’s individuality, their uniqueness. And they do it to daemons, too. In some ways, Hollowing is more honest, and it’s certainly over quicker.” Miles shuddered, closing his eyes and turning his head towards Gregor’s chest. The confrontation with the ambassador had been too much, especially considering, no, he wouldn’t think of that. “The ambassador had worked for the Mental Health Board for a while, and enjoyed its work there. Possibly too much, which was why it was removed. It received an ambassadorial post for its years of loyal service.”

They sat that way in silence for some time. Eventually, Gregor said, “I have to have dinner with the Betan president when we get there. I know he’s going to be after me about extraditing Admiral Naismith. Can you think of anything I could use to derail him? I know I can’t accuse him of destroying souls, much as I’d like to.”

With a brief, yet completely genuine, snicker, Miles said, “Have Simon send you the data on how they rigged the last election. I’ve had a look around their system myself, and I don’t think there’s been a completely honest election in my mother’s lifetime. The voting fraud’s become particularly egregious since the Escobaran War.”

Gregor was amused by the irony, too. He said, “How much information does Simon have? And how do you know the statistics, anyway.”

“Their InfoNet security is laughable. The only thing the Betans actually protect is their scientific development data, and that’s on the companys’ private terminals. When it comes to the InfoNet, they might as well have a huge sign saying ‘Hackers Welcome! Stay as long as you like, take what you want!’” Miles shook his head, “The pre-test for the second tier hacking class is to break into it. If you can’t within a specified amount of time, you’re eliminated from the class as having no aptitude for hacking.”

Nalaresti asked, “Why do they leave statistics regarding their voting fraud on a public server?”

“Arrogance and their known position in the Nexus, mostly. The arrogance goes without saying, but most Betan citizens and Nexus governments wouldn’t even bother, both because they know the InfoNet’s impregnable, and because they can’t imagine that the Betan government would do anything underhanded,” Miles responded. Shifting so that he was on Gregor’s lap, both daemons moving to leave more surface area, he sighed, “Thanks for getting the fleet to the Hub in time. I knew Simon had to have all the data, but when Ungari had no idea that there was going to be a Cetagandan invasion, I had a few bad moments.”

“We had a few bad moments on our end,” Gregor said, softly, “When we heard the Dendarii were engaging first the Rangers, then the Cetagandans in Vervain space, we knew you had to have gotten to them, which was good in that we then knew where you were, then gut-wrenching because you were in danger.” He shuddered, “I was terrified, Samye.”

“I’m sorry, Sierdtsy,” Miles whispered. 

“Don’t apologize for being you, unless you set out to scare the shit out of us it’s not your fault. Just…expect to be treated like fine china for a while.”

* * *

Listening to Miles and Gregor with something approaching contentment, Sularenimon flew over to where Nalaresti had laid down. She cocked one ear at him, saying, “You know, you could explore the rest of the ship.”

“What type of cad do you take me for,” he said with mock offense, “Leave my lady to herself?” He began gently preening her neck fur. She shivered in delight.

They watched their humans moving from necking to petting, with a potential for clothing removal. Nalaresti said, “I’m happy Gregor’s finally comfortable with us watching. He’s never been one to pull out the cedar boxes, but he always made his partner’s daemon and me avert our gazes. He needs to be someone’s ‘Heart’.”

“And Miles needs to be someone’s ‘Most’. Whether it had to be each other, I’m not sure. But I do know that Miles’s has been more secure in himself with Gregor,” Sularenimon gently preened Nalaresti’s ear, remembering his part in getting Gregor comfortable with losing control. Gentle teasing had been the ticket, enough that Gregor didn’t feel he was being overly sheltered, but not as hard-edged as he could be. “And I do know if Miles was going to settle down this young, he needed someone he already felt secure with.”

Nalaresti didn’t say anything to that, but instead asked the raven daemon, “What other reasons did you have for not wanting to leave?”

And there was the disadvantage of being a member of a long term relationship. Your partner, and their partner, had time to get to know you. Not that Sularenimon objected overly much. While he would play at being inscrutable, he wanted someone to know him deeply as much as Miles did. “I need someone to relax with, after being grabbed at, mauled, and handled. And I’ve had too much enforced loneliness. I need to relax in company.”

“Who handled you?” the borzoi growled, ears going back in her quiet anger. 

“Metzov. His daemon was the thing that mauled me, too,” He shuddered at his remembrance of the daemon’s harsh breath and Metzov’s nasty mind. 

_“Well, abomination,” the former general said, gloating. Sularenimon struggled in the hold of the wolverine daemon’s jaws. They had never feared wolverine daemons until now. Even after having seen what Bothari’s daemon, Blade, could do to another daemon, he had never feared the dangerous breed, and neither had Miles. Metzov continued gloating, “It appears God has delivered you into my hands.”_

_“Actually,” Miles said, as if he weren’t tightly bound with his daemon only a fraction of a Pascal away from dissolution. As Miles continued, Sularenimon idly began approximating the pressure the other daemon would need to snap his spine, “I was delivered by Cavilo into your hands. While she would probably appreciate being called God, I doubt she has achieved divinity.”_

_Metzov growled, and backhanded Miles across the face. Sularenimon thanked whatever divine being existed for his other half’s reinforced bones. The insane man glowered down at Miles, eventually bending down to whisper, “I wonder what I should do first…” He chuckled, and the wolverine made an equally unsavory chuffing sound. Even when he had faced snake daemons, Sularenimon had never understood even partially how the animals his form was based on felt when confronted with snakes. Even if this daemon wasn’t a snake, there was a level of unhealthy predatory instinct emitted in that single sound._

_On hearing his daemon, Metzov turned. And his smile was not only cruel, it wasn’t remotely sane. He approached the two daemons. On reaching them, he glanced back at Miles, the chilling smile still on his face. Then, with a gentleness that was crueler than a blow would have been, he reached out and caressed Sularenimon’s head in a twisted mirror of the gentle touches Gregor initiated._

_Through the sensation of swimming through electrically charged sewage while being skinned, Sularenimon heard Miles’s soft cry mingling with his own. Even as the filth overwhelmed their minds, Sularenimon wondered if Chechya had experienced something similar when she tore out Mad Yuri’s throat._

He came back to the present with Nalaresti curled around him. As Miles was doing with Gregor, he relaxed into the soothing presence of his beloved. Even knowing it was a stopgap measure, that they would have to talk with someone, for now he could bask in being loved without explanation.


	2. Beta

Nalaresti lay quietly by Gregor’s feet while they listened to the Barrayaran ambassador refresh Gregor’s memory on the details about President Pierce. She had asked the ambassador’s sparrow daemon a few questions of her own, but the information provided had proved less than helpful. Maybe the bird disapproved of Nalaresti even wanting the information. She would have to ask Gregor to request a different ambassador as it was becoming obvious that this one didn’t want to work with her, and therefore interfering with their interests.''

She wished Miles and Sularenimon could have accompanied them. Their deliberate disregard of protocols often was a useful unbalancing technique. Miles’s rudeness to the Betan Ambassador hadn’t been the cause for their concern, but rather the lack of calculation and a flurry of edged conversation averaging insults and compliments to a mild negative assessment. 

Even now Nalaresti knew what had thrown Sularenimon and Miles off balance, she couldn’t tell Gregor. Sularenimon had asked her not to, begged her not to. She hurt as she remembered the pained fear in her bold, cheerful Ren. She had agreed to not immediately tell Gregor only after extracting a promise from the raven daemon to either tell Gregor himself or, preferably, have Miles tell him.

The one thing she didn’t have to worry about was Gregor accidentally finding out. Miles and Sularenimon could be overly self-sufficient at times, but they weren’t cowards.

The groundcar stopped and as they exited the vehicle, both Nalaresti and Gregor eyed the presidential residence. Built to impress, but not nearly as gaudy as some of the dwellings of the wealthy and powerful they had seen on Komarr and in the Hub. There had been one she wished Sularenimon could have seen to mock. It had looked like someone had tried to make a full scale replica of the Imperial Residence in a Komarran house that was, to be generous, a twentieth of the size. 

The president was a tall blond man with a ridiculously toothy smile and a genial manner. His chameleon daemon’s disdain told a different story. Nalaresti suspected that because they were mere Barrayarans, the daemon didn’t feel the need to pretend to friendliness and approachability. Or she might be that way with everyone, and Betans just didn’t pick up on it. Betans were daemon blind.

In some ways that was good. Nalaresti had noticed that galactics who weren’t daemon blind tended to assume that a domesticated canine daemon meant you were only waiting for someone to whistle. When a Betan was willing to recognize you at least as an expression of a part of your human, it was good.

But it hurt to be ignored as though you weren’t a large part of your human but were instead a useless appendage. And her exposure to Miles, an outlier on the standard distribution of friendly human-daemon interactions, didn’t help her sense of hurt. Miles treated daemons like…like he treated married women, someone interesting and with their own interests that happened to mesh in places with the interests and life of someone else. 

She knew that she was a vital part of Gregor, but she hadn’t realized how much she loved being treated like a person until now. 

They were seated in a private dining room, apparently their status as the darlings of the Hegan Hub meant that the president didn’t want to press his perceived advantage in public. Which was fine. Gregor wanted to try a spot of blackmail of his own, and that would be more difficult to do if he had to worry about other people than the president. 

Gregor seated himself neatly, and Nalaresti sat beside his chair. The president sat down across from them and a server brought in the first course.

* * *

While they waited for Gregor to return from his meeting with the Betan president, Aral decided to see if he could coax Miles or Sularenimon into discussing why they were so out of sorts. Whatever was the cause, he and Chechya diagnosed it as new pain, rather than old. Which meant it wasn’t the Council, or Beta, or being a male ‘mutie’ witch with a male daemon. It wasn’t a relationship problem, although Miles and Gregor’s relationship was incomparable to any relationship Aral had been a part of, except for his marriage to Cordelia, who was better at figuring out that sort of problem than he was. He would be willing to listen and help in any way he could, though he wasn’t certain how much help he would be. And it wasn’t…

Chechya’s ears perked and she lifted her head. Someone was coming. He had left the door open so they could hear people. The sounds of the footsteps quickly identified the person as Miles. Looking at the timepiece, he muttered, “He’s earlier than I expected.”

“He’s Miles,” Chechya replied, “He never does what you expect. That’s the general you, of course.”

“I know,” he said, reaching down to ruffle her ears as he had done since they were young and she had assumed forms making that possible and convenient. Which had been fairly often, she had usually chosen canine or feline forms. She wasn’t like Sularenimon, unwilling to stay in any one form for too long, wanting to try every shape he could before he settled once and for all. 

Miles walked into the room with an approximation of his usual confidence that might have fooled someone casually acquainted with him, but couldn’t fool a person who knew him well. His smile appeared genuine, but Aral could tell it was hiding pain.

Sularenimon wasn’t with him. Not unusual, the daemon only spent long periods of time with Miles during official occasions or when they were undercover. Or when Miles was with Gregor, as Sularenimon adored both Nalaresti and Gregor himself.

Dramatically flinging himself into one of the chairs in front of the command desk, Miles spent quite some time making himself comfortable. Aral watched with amusement and worry, “You finished?” he asked in the same tone he used when Bythren did something similar.

Picking up on the emotional connotations of the question, Miles replied, “Mostly. No one makes chairs the proper height.” He paused, looking nervous before plowing ahead in his usual fashion, “Sularenimon will be joining us soon. He has a question for you and Chechya.”

The only response Chechya had to that was a slight ear twitch, although she had to be curious as Aral about what Sularenimon and Miles wanted to talk about. Even with Miles claiming it was Sularenimon’s question, his presence indicated interest equal to that of his daemon. Not wanting to touch on whatever had brought Miles before he and his daemon were ready, Aral asked, “Are you all right with not being able to visit Beta anymore?”

Mind elsewhere, Miles quite visibly suppressed a jump before answering, “I know Mother’s always wanted me to enjoy Beta, but…visiting Beta, particularly of late, has tended to be more duty than pleasure. It’s given me a greater understanding of how galactics think, but I’m Barrayaran, no matter how much I’ve tried to deny it at times.”

Aral blinked. Becoming a witch seemed to have done Miles a great deal of good, at least in terms of self knowledge. For all the difficulties it had caused (and would continue to cause) Miles, the boy had gained significant stability. Whatever was bothering him, it was nothing to do with his abilities.

Just then, Sularenimon flew through the open door. Remembering Miles’s tone, Aral pressed a button and waited for the door to close before saying, “It’s good to see you, Sularenimon.”

The raven gave a respectful nod before replying, addressing both Aral and Chechya, “It’s good to see you as well, Sir, Ma’am.”

After Chechya gave her own nod of acknowledgement, Sularenimon settled himself on Miles’s lap, Miles leaning forward to rest his head on his daemon’s, putting his arms around the raven. A position the family recognized as indicating emotional vulnerability. Miles and Sularenimon so often acted as completely individual units that it was unusual for either man or daemon to admit their interdependence. Grey eyes over black gazed at him quietly for a moment, before an unspoken agreement was reached and Sularenimon said, “I need you to tell us about Yuri.”

Aral felt himself go rigid with shock. Although he had subdued most of the emotions and memories associated with that period of time long ago, there was always a flash of mixed anger, fear, and the indefinable remembrance of madness. 

While Aral collected himself, Chechya asked, tone sharper than she meant it to be, “What about Yuri?”

“His death,” It was Miles who responded, “The decision process…and how you coped with-what happened- afterwards.”

Closing his eyes as he realized what was driving this question, Aral eventually managed to answer, “I don’t remember most of his death myself, and Chechya has never spoken of her memories, but I do remember the debate leading up to the execution. Death by committee, I believe your mother called it when I told her the full story. But…all those who lost family in his purge or to experimentation afterwards were to take a cut. That was…a substantial number, even without all those who had been completely eliminated.” He remembered the feel of the room, even his Betan grandmother had been coldly furious, enough to take part in such an un-Betan activity. “Then, when he was near death, our daemons were to tear apart his daemon.”

Miles looked vaguely sick, at what Aral couldn’t say. He allowed his son some time to recover himself, “I was to take the first cut as the only surviving victim old enough. I remember standing there in front of Yuri, him taunting me…and all I wanted to do was vomit. I raised the knife and then- Chechya leaped for his throat. Before anyone could try and stop her, she had ripped it out. I felt what seemed like an eternity of madness and pain, before I found myself off to the side of the room being treated with smelling salts. Being scolded and realizing that Chechya had settled with Yuri’s blood on her muzzle.”

There was a brief pause before Chechya spoke, “It was a mutual desire for Yuri’s quick death that motivated me to make that decision. I was watching Kyvren, and doing so made me realize how horrible we would both feel after going through with the plan. And I took matters into my own hands, as it were.” She brooded for a moment, “It felt like being struck by insane lightning, more than anything else.”

Sularenimon and Miles sat, motionless, through end of Aral’s remembrance and Chechya’s additions. Almost as soon as Aral and his daemon settled their emotions, Sularenimon shifted and moved to Miles’s shoulder as his human stood. Bowing his head, Miles said, “Thank you, Sir, Ma’am.”

Before the pair could disappear, Aral stood and walked to Miles. Placing one hand on Miles’s shoulder and gently cupping his face with the other, Aral said, “Do Gregor and Nalaresti know?”

Closing his eyes, Miles said, “Nalaresti knows, Sularenimon told her last night. Gregor will know soon.” Sularenimon nodded his agreement.

“I am always available if you need someone who understands,” Aral said, Chechya quietly adding her assent.

With a sad smile, Miles said, “Thank you,” and left.


	3. Komarr

They were back on Komarr, and Gregor wasn’t looking forward to the next endless round of banquets and individual dinners of varying degrees of formality that awaited them. Komarr was a particularly thorny stop for a high level Barrayaran official at the best of times, and when you were the Barrayaran Emperor with the ‘Butcher of Komarr’ in tow, matters became even more complicated.

Gregor hoped that whatever was bothering Miles wouldn’t interfere with public appearances. While Miles’s male witchery lowered his status and overall desirability on Barrayar, on Komarr it was a surprising boon. Many of the Komarran trade families were run by witches, at least all of the wildly successful ones were, and there were as many male witches heading families as female ones. 

The door chime sounded and the door opened before he could activate his wristcom to ask the guards who it was. Turning around, he smiled as Nalaresti awoke, saying, “Hello, Miles.”

The door shutting behind him, Miles almost crept into the room. Smile disappearing, Gregor asked, “What’s wrong?” He hoped they had enough time before the welcoming banquet; Miles’s problems generally took a while to sort out.

Miles stopped about three feet away from Gregor, which made him even more anxious. Now that he thought about it, Miles hadn’t initiated close contact since the Hegan Hub, but Gregor didn’t have much time to consider this, because Miles began speaking, “I have a confession to make.”

Trying not to think of what Miles could have done that was horrible enough for Miles to need to ‘confess’ Gregor waited, holding on to his patience. Nalaresti came to his side. She seemed to have some idea of what happened, which was slightly disconcerting, but not as disturbing as Miles’s immediate step backwards as she approached.

Shaking his head, Gregor told him, “Just say what you came to say.”

“I know I should have told you this much sooner, but…it never seemed the right time. And I know you’re going to be angry, which is part of the reason I didn’t tell you before…”

Watching Miles wring the hem of his tunic and listening to him dance around the subject put Gregor over the edge. He growled, “For the love of daemons and stars Miles, just spit it out!”

Miles jerked back as though Gregor had slapped him. Before Gregor had a chance to apologize for the harshness, Miles spoke, “Metzov touched Sularenimon. And his daemon touched me after Cavilo let Sularenimon escape.”

It took Gregor a moment for Miles’s statement to register, longer for it to seep into Gregor’s brain. He had never had the misfortune of meeting the former General, but even with all the pieced together information on his insanity, he hadn’t seen anything to indicate that level of depravity. An angry haze enveloped him and he reached down to place his hands between Nalaresti’s ears to ground himself.

When he looked up to apologize to Miles, both for not pursuing the oddities earlier and for frightening him, Gregor discovered that the other man had left without a further word.

That action said more about Miles’s state of mind than anything else.

* * *

After leaving Gregor’s quarters Miles wandered aimlessly, eventually stopping at an empty common room. Casting his mind about the surrounding area he determined that no one was likely to disturb him here. Sularenimon would fetch him when it was time to go, and right now he needed as close to absolute solitude as he could get.

Seating himself on the…he’d be generous and call it a couch, Miles began to consider the beginning of the whole mess. He wondered if he would make the same decision to reveal himself if he had known what Metzov would do to him later.

_“The Moot is traditionally held in the Arctic, far away from the Clan territories,” Faina said as she and Miles flew on their cloud pine branches. “While most Vor lines and their corresponding Clans aren’t as intertwined as the Vorkosigans and the Koskhans, holding the Moot on land held by any one Clan or line would be asking for trouble.”_

_“And these arctic lands have only recently been used for anything by normal humans,” Miles thought aloud._

_“Indeed,” she paused briefly, before saying, “It is traditional to only use our Clan Names amongst ourselves during our first lifetime, when we are most closely linked to our mortal families. Eventually, we abandon our birth surnames and only use our Clan names, as you will eventually leave behind the brown and silver for the white and silver. I am Faina Koskhan-Pym now, but two hundred years ago, I was born Faina Vorkosigan.”_

_Miles had known the Koskhans had special interests in the Vorkosigan line, but hadn’t known why, or how close the two extended families were intertwined. Sularenimon asked, from his position below them with Maelestren, “How did this closeness happen?”_

_“You have heard the tale of the Maiden of the Lake?” Faina briefly paused before continuing, “After the assisted suicide of his bride-to-be, Count Selig decided that any bride of his would have to be both willing and able to defend herself, not only from his enemies, but even those they considered friends and stand the storm that would result from such willingness. When he was riding through the Dendarii, he met a witch gathering herbs. While it wasn’t exactly love at first sight for him, she persuaded him that she was willing to forsake her mountain home for a short time for his sake. They married, and since that time at least one daughter in every generation has been a witch.”_

_Miles barely had time to process this when a whiff of near-terror/pain/despair/anger came on the wind, the synthesiac combination of scent-sound nearly knocked Miles from the sky._

_Without thinking, Miles turned towards the source of the fear, urgency lending speed to his flight. Behind him, he heard Faina let a brief curse before she shouted, “Miles!”_

_“I’m not stopping,” he threw over his shoulder._

_“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” she huffed. He felt her hand grip his ankle, holding him back. “However, I believe you should take on the appearance of young Melina until we determine what exactly is happening and whether it requires Lord Vorkosigan.”_

_“Sorry,” Miles muttered before casting the image of Melina and Kythe over himself and Sularenimon. He shot an unfocussed gaze at his daemon, making certain that he could see the overlay of a merlin falcon instead of just the raven. After considering things for a moment, he also slowed his pace, because he didn’t need the mismatch problem that happened when he moved too quickly while projecting an illusion that didn’t match his real size. Melina might have been shorter than Elena and the Koudelka’s, but she was still a good six inches taller than Miles._

_While cloud pine (even with extreme urgency of thought behind it) was far slower than a lightflyer, and they weren’t traveling at the fastest pace that cloud pine could manage, the group of flyers came upon the source of the negative emotions far sooner for any of their comfort._

_It looked like a scene out of nightmare, the worst of the Time of Isolation, or possibly even Old Earth. There were two groups of men standing in front of a storage bunker. One group, the composed of the people with weapons, was primarily made up of trainees. The other group was naked in the cold. From their general appearance, they had been standing outside for far longer than was healthy for an ordinary human. Miles had no idea what was going on, but whatever it was, he doubted it was rational even if it was somehow legal._

_Sularenimon did an almost loop that looked impossible every time he performed it, whispering to Miles, “I think you should activate the emergency beacon.” Miles frowned, but the daemon didn’t give him a chance to argue, “We both hate interference, but even if you have to be Lord Vorkosigan, we’re technically outside of the military chain of command.”_

_Knowing that his daemon had a point, Miles reached up to press the button that was on the hand gripping the cloud pine branch. With a flick of thought, he threw a bit of non-detection over the wristcom. No need to go to all this trouble to hide his identity if he was going to give it all away by forgetting to hide his security measures._

_Maelestren and Sularenimon back winged about twenty feet above the head of the iron-haired man. Miles didn’t know if Maelestren would be able to do anything, great greys were extremely light, but their presence gave them moral support if nothing else._

_Once Miles and Faina landed, Faina took the lead. Miles marched after her, trying to maintain the general feel of his clan-sister, while at the same time running an assessment of the situation. Now that they were close enough to see the cast of this nightmare, his political situation alarms were all bellowing. The techs were mostly Greek, at least from appearance, while the- general?- yes the commander was a general, was likely of the Russo-English majority._

_Faina reached the commander, and demanded sharply, “What is going on here, General? What business have you in trying to murder your own men?”_

_The general looked furious and his wolverine daemon growled. “This is a purely internal disciplinary affair, witch.” He made the term ‘witch’ sound exactly like he was saying ‘bitch’, “What business have_ you _in interfering?”_

_Deliberately giving the scene a jaundiced look, Miles as Melina stated, “Discipline? Looks like murder to me.” He forced himself to stalk forward like the young woman would have, “I believe the General Staff would be most interested in this crime, General.”_

_None of them were expecting the general to aim a blow at where Melina’s head would have been as the wolverine daemon burst forward. Even as Miles dropped to the ground, Faina herself flew into motion, striking the general on the temple as Sularenimon and Maelestren contained his daemon._

_Before any of the soldiers who might be inclined to mount a counter-offensive had a chance to think, Miles dropped the illusion, announcing as he did, “Don’t move, unless you want to add attacking a Count’s heir to the list of crimes you’ve managed to acquire.”_

_He hoped no one would think to call his bluff. He wasn’t certain what the soldiers would do if they figured out that they outnumbered the two witches._

Fortunately, between the four of them Miles, Sularenimon, Faina, and Maelestren had managed to keep the soldiers too busy to think of mutiny. It had reminded Miles uncomfortably of the beginnings of the Dendarii, but he was also grateful that he had the experience in keeping soldiers too busy to remember the odds. Now that he thought about it, the general emotional state had been about the same both times, too…

“Miles?”

The question’s subject suppressed a leap and banshee wail, although Sularenimon took flight. Almost before he turned around, Gregor pulled him into a gently fierce embrace. Even without the whispered apologies and explanations, Miles knew he was forgiven his cowardice.

Even though he was five jumps away from Barrayar, he felt like he had come home.


	4. Barrayar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay.

Simon didn’t relax his stern expression or rigid posture until after he knew Miles was not only out of his office, but off the floor and on his way out of the building. With a sigh, he waited for Lerante to delicately pick her way from his shoulders down to his desk before burying his face in her soft fur.

They stayed that way for fifty-seven seconds before Lerante whispered, “I think they finally understand how negative the consequences of their failure could be, Simon. They seemed to understand it even before your talk.”

After playing back Miles’s facial expressions, Sularenimon’s body language, and both parties’ uncharacteristic silence, Simon finally said, “You’re right…I just wish that they could have done it any other way. Or that we could have tracked down the evidence and Metzov before he had the opportunity to-hurt- Miles. And Sularenimon. I hope that they aren’t permanently damaged from Metzov’s actions.”

Lerante began grooming his hair and right ear. In between licks she said, “I know…but they’re both resilient, although the fact that they’ve experienced war marriage might work against them in this case.” Gregor and Nalaresti will help as well, and that’s key in cases like these.”

She paused briefly in her grooming and speech. When she spoke again, she sounded thoughtful, “I don’t think Miles is likely to put himself in a position where he might endanger his father and Gregor again. That both Gregor and Aral came after them has to be giving Miles political nightmares.”

“Good,” Simon muttered. At least someone could have their share the political nightmares he’d had when first Aral and then Gregor had insisted on going with the fleet, at least nominally to stop the Cetagandan invasion. If Simon hadn’t known them so well, he’d even have believed that reasoning. However, he’d known all too well that they were really going for Miles.

They stayed in communion for a short time, just until the warning chime of the comconsole alerted them to their upcoming appointment with Captain Ungari.

With an inaudible sigh, Simon sat up and straightened his tunic back into immaculate order. Lerante waited until the tunic was perfectly in order before she made a leap and settled herself about his shoulders; she would perch there like an ice sculpture throughout the meeting.

They had timed it perfectly. Ungari and Tella were in the outer office, quite clearly having been there for the precise amount of time Simon had wanted them to wait.

The captain strode in and gave Simon a textbook salute. Simon returned it very coolly.

He let Ungari stand in silence for precisely ten seconds before beginning, “Captain. May I ask where precisely your brain was this mission? It does not appear to have been inside your head.”

Ungari’s lips thinned, but that was the only response the agent permitted himself. His daemon, Tella, on the other hand, cringed slightly.

And well she should. Simon counted on his agents and their daemons to prevent each other from causing situations, such as the one Ungari’s prejudices had created.

Simon knew that part of the problem was Ungari’s nature. While those with dog daemons weren’t nearly as consistent in their obedience as galactics tended to assume, individuals with foxhound daemons _did_ have an unfortunate tendency to run with the pack when everyone else was in full voice. And public ImpSec opinion had very unfavorable to the newest Fledged. However…

Simon continued, “Lord Vorkosigan is not merely a member of the Fledged, although even if he were only a witch your actions would be bad enough. He is _Lord Vorkosigan_ , sole heir to the Vorkosigan Countship. Furthermore, he is married to the Emperor.”

Ungari looked constipated, “How can he be married to the Emperor? Even if they’re fucking, that doesn’t make a marriage, even if it _was_ legal for two males to wed.” Beside him, Tella winced.

Giving the Captain an excoriating look and feeling Lerante do the same, Simon answered, in the dry tone all ImpSec recognized, “They may not have a contractual marriage, but Miles most certainly is married to Gregor. They are _legally_ war-spouses. Anything else would be superfluous.”

* * *

“Wait, Barrayarans actually have a form of marriage for same-sex couples?” Cordelia was astonished. Bythren’s gaze was focused on the object of Cordelia’s question with equal fascination and shock.

With a wry smile, Professora Helen Vorthys put down her tea cup and carefully opened one of the manuscripts by her side, resting her other hand on Phaelemar's, her lynx daemon, head. “I know it’s very difficult to believe, Cordelia, but it is quite true.”

Shaking her head at the contradictory nature of Barrayarans, Cordelia continued, “And you said Miles turned you on to this area of study?”

“Indirectly, yes. Although he didn’t remember the source until they approached me about historical precedents for accepted homosexual liaisons.”

Phaelemar looked slightly smug, although the Professora allowed nothing of that emotion to show herself, “When his grandfather took Miles to the archives, Miles and Sularenimon found some of the love poetry of Emperor Ilar located in a section they should theoretically never been able to access. This poetry was clearly written either to another man or to a witch, as Ilar speaks of his beloved’s prowess on the field of battle and strength of arm. Ilar was married to a mortal woman and no witch would share her lover with another, so it doesn’t take a specialist to determine that the beloved was a man.”

“But why is this considered unacceptable now?” Cordelia asked.

“Part of it stems from the pressures to repopulate after Dorca’s campaigns and the Invasion. The common thought was that a man should be putting his sexual energies into heterosexual relationships rather than ‘dissipating’ them on a War Spouse. Part of it stems from the prevalent prejudicial knowledge that this was a Greek custom, and so the introduction into Anglo-Russian and French society was a perversion of culture. And part of it stems from the pragmatic knowledge won through centuries of hardship, that when a child’s parents have the same sex daemon, it isn’t uncommon for a child to be stillborn. Even in galactic medicine, there is still a not insignificant chance of stillbirth.”

Cordelia was intimately familiar with the last problem. Her brother and his partner’s first venture in parenting had ended in just that tragedy. Their mother had told both of them that if the parents’ daemons were the same sex, the potential for stillbirth (even with galactic geneering technology) was approximately one in five thousand.

None of them mentioned the fourth reason, which was the distinguishing of Barrayar from the ‘corrupt’ Nexus. Both Bythren and Professora Vorthys didn’t mention it very loudly.

“Well,” Cordelia said, “The last won’t be a problem with Miles and Gregor. The rest, however…”

“Indeed. But there is another piece of good news on the political front,” Professora Vorthys said. “There has been a great deal of interest in unification of the two as yet disparate pieces of Barrayaran society. While the witches have traditionally maintained a distant relationship with mortal society, I have it on good authority that at the last Moot the clans came to a decision that they must integrate with the rest of Barrayaran society. However, they need some reassurance of self-governance. A witch as Empress…or rather, Imperial Consort, with expanded duties for that role would go far in easing the divide between witches and mortals.”

For an individual with an interest in the integration efforts, the identity of the Professora’s ‘good authority’ would be clear. The Professora had two sources in the Koskhan Clan alone, and who knew how many in the greater clan-structure. Young witches tended to go into academics or, oddly enough, legal practice in their associated district. Cordelia was watching the unfolding career of one such witch, a Koskhan adoptee, with great interest.

But the mention of witches brought to mind another complication, “Will the witches object to a young witch being given that much authority?”

“I doubt there will be significant objection, especially as the proposed authority would have more to do with relationships with mortal society and not with Clan society. A witch’s first lifetime is the traditional time for concern with mortal society, and the role of consort would appear an extension of that period’s focus.”

There was nothing Cordelia could say to dispute that. She didn’t have the background, although she doubted things would be nearly that simple. Getting the permission of the Council of Counts would most certainly not be a simple process, and witches…she didn’t know enough about witches to be certain of anything.

Shaking her head and petting a purring Bythren, Cordelia switched the topic to a much simpler one, young Melina, “So how is your newest student doing?”


	5. Vorhartung Castle

Part of Alys was almost ready to strangle her erstwhile nephews for springing this course of action on her, treasonous as it was to contemplate.

It felt like she had been ambushed. Oh, she had known for longer than even Gregor himself that the young man was in love with Miles. And they _had_ told her as soon as there was anything to speak of.

She had never witnessed any improprieties, although it was hardly a state secret that Miles, at least, had touched Nalaresti during a highly charged and very public situation. And because of that, a marriage of convenience on Gregor’s part was out of the question. No witch could accept a Public Spouse any more than a rock could sprout wings and fly.

Alys knew all of this and still spent a satisfying five minutes dreaming up ways to kill her nephews. 

Taking her mind off morbid, not to mention treasonous and unseemly, fantasies, Alys turned to the pile of historical precedents.

The most recent was the most surprising. Emperor Vlad Vorbarra was famous for his deep depression at his first wife’s death, most notably a mourning period of five years before he even considered marrying again. But it appeared that at the time it was so common to be attached to a War Spouse that when his second wife sued him for desertion following the death of Lord Vorvayne, who had been the Emperor’s closest advisor, childhood friend, and War Spouse, she was laughed out of the court.

The problem was that all the historical evidence in the Empire would not prevent the Council of Counts from throwing an unholy fit.

“It will be a challenge,” she said to Trethimane.

If her daemon had been bipedal he would have shrugged. As it was he simply stated, “You know very well that it will be manageable. And part of that is due to Miles, what he is, and that the Council has incontrovertibly acknowledged their War Marriage.”

True enough, but all that would still not prevent all the Conservatives and half the Independents from throwing a fit to equal that of any toddler. The Centrists would in all likelihood be unhappy as well, but they would see the potential political advantage of having such a consort and keep quiet.

At times like this, she wished that Padma was still alive so that he could serve as a distraction. Even though everyone had known that Alys was in control of their relationship it was easier to maintain the necessary fictions, even with their daemons demonstrating the truth of who was captain of the relationship to anyone with eyes.

Alys had been faintly disappointed when Trethimane settled as a goat. Her mother had been politely horrified. Yes, Trethimane was a pure-bred Vorbretten Cashmere, looking as though he traced his line back from the Australian Cashmeres the first settlers had brought with them, but what proper Vor man would want a woman with the soul of a goat?

A woman whose daemon proclaimed her to be headstrong and unwilling to make any compromises hinging on her submission.

In the end, Padma Vorpatril’s grandmother, Jaqueline Vorbarra of all people, had acted as baba for her grandson. She felt that without a strong wife to take charge of the young officer, he would quickly become a magnet for treasonous plots.

And they had been contented, Padma, Trethimane, Thirit, and Alys. Thirit had been a mountain finch, a sweet little daemon much like her human. There had been little hidden about Padma’s nature.

Alys wished she could say she had loved her husband, but she never had. Cared about him, and for him, certainly, but there had been little to inspire passion beyond the physical in her, although she would never tell Aral so... save for at the end of the marriage, when her anger overrode her fondness.

Forcing aside the anger that welled up even after all this time, Alys pulled her cool dignity about her like armor. Gregor, Miles, Nalaresti, and Sularenimon would be here for the last conference prior to making the betrothal announcement. Gregor must be reminded to keep to the prescribed script, and Miles to not begin a physical altercation the minute someone paid more than friendly attention to Gregor.

Alys frowned at that. Miles had never been one to avoid an altercation. In fact, he had an unhealthy interest in finding ones to get himself involved in. However, he had little of his father’s physically violent temper, although the vengeful tricks he and Sularenimon had committed during childhood had skirted major injury at times.

Forcing her thoughts away from what could cause this increased eccentricity, Alys decided to leave the problem to Gregor, Aral, and Cordelia. They had more effective methods of influencing Miles’s mental status.

Other than reminding Miles and Gregor of the necessary factors, Alys’s part in the political game was done.

…at least for the next few hours.

* * *

While Gregor was technically an absolute ruler, this vote would stretch his power’s unwritten, but very real, limits.

And the strain would not end with this vote.

While they were certain of Miles and his own ability to bully, bribe, or otherwise work the Council of Counts around, bringing their relationship into the open would open Miles up to many accusations, few of which were answerable by a Circle.

And he and Nalaresti had been surprised to discover what a Circle was. The aftermath of encounter on Komarr, the evening Miles had admitted what Metzov did to him and Sularenimon, had given Gregor and Nalaresti more information about witch culture than they had learned before in their entire life.

Gregor sat back as unobtrusively as possible, laying one hand on Nalaresti’s head as he did so, recalling the Komarran incident and turning the new information over and over in his mind.

_Beatrix Trian seemed more like an octopus than the young witch Gregor knew she was. He wished that he could match her to a member of the flock of daemons in the rafters, as it would help him determine what she was serving and how polite he should be in discouraging her interest. The woman was the scion of a powerful Familia, and causing diplomatic incidences with the Families and Familiae was not a good idea._

_Just as Gregor decided that extreme measures were called for, the decision was taken from him by a small hand sliding around his waist and driving a thumbnail into the pressure point on Beatrix’s wrist. Quickly stepping out from between two witches who were, in all probability, at least a little mad even by the standards of their own culture, Gregor turned so he could see both Beatrix and Miles._

_Just after he turned, a swearing streak of black, white, and yellow dove at Miles. Unfortunately for Beatrix’s daemon, Sularenimon was ready and, with great efficiency, the raven cut off the other daemon’s path. Ren didn’t use his larger size and natural weapons to attack, he just gave the impression of the prototypical immovable object, acting the perfect counterpoint to Miles’s irresistible force._

_Miles’s voice was soft and deceptively light, but his eyes were a warning gunmetal grey, “You are most fortunate that the Emperor and I have made no public vows, Beatrix Trianis. Without the protection of Familia Trian I fear you would soon have but a single companion on your journey henceforth."_

_Beatrix’s green eyes narrowed, “But you are not_ yet _oathbound, Miles Koskhan. Do you demand the twain?”_

_Miles looked… feral. Before he could answer, a voice cut through the confrontation, “Is there some trouble here?”_

_All six pairs of eyes flew to the silk clad trio. There were the Matrae Toscane and Trian, and the Pater Eremus, all frowning._

_After a heart stopping moment of assuming they had irrevocably offended the elders of three of the highest Familiae on Komarr, Gregor realized that their gazes fell more on Beatrix. Mater Trian appeared especially offended by the young witch, staring as though she had never seen the young woman in her life. And Beatrix looked as though she were trying to fade into the wallpaper. Miles’s hold was now anchoring the woman in place instead of stopping her from attacking._

_“Beatrix and I were…discussing a few points of common interest,” Miles responded, with a calm Gregor could tell was a façade maintained only through a Herculean act of will._

_A single eyebrow on Mater Toscane and Pater Eremus’s faces moved upward in synchronous expressions of disbelief. Mater Trian was still looking at her descendent like she was primordial slime. After another unwanted cardiac exercise, Mater Trian gave the barest nod of acknowledgement…to Miles._

_Beatrix’s eyes widened, but that appeared to be the only sign of genuine emotion she was allowing herself tonight._

_Satisfied that Mater Trian’s communication was sufficient, all three elders glided away. Miles released Beatrix and she vanished, even without the intervention of magic._

_Gregor glanced at Miles with his eyebrow lifted, noting how tired the other man appeared. Nalaresti whuffed at Miles, approaching his side but ensuring she didn’t crowd or try to touch him. Gregor placed a gentle hand on Miles’s shoulder, “Do you need to go back to your quarters?”_

_Miles paused, probably to analyze his chances of getting away with saying he was fine. After a moment, he nodded assent._

_With a brief flick of a finger, Sularenimon joined them and, trailing half the ImpSec men from the gathering and all Gregor’s personal Armsmen, they proceeded to the Official Komarran Imperial Transport._

_The journey to the Komarran Viceregal Palace was quiet. The most interesting event was Miles and Sularenimon taking a single look at the unmarked passenger vehicle and stifling snickers._

_Gregor waited until they were inside the transport before asking, “What was so amusing?”_

_Miles grinned, the first genuinely happy expression Gregor had seen since the younger man had left for the Hegan Hub, “Someone needs to tell the ImpSec Komarr boys to work on subtlety. This transport is as inconspicuous as my parents’ behemoth.”_

_Gregor and Nalaresti exchanged bemused glances. They were so used to armored and armed vehicles that the incongruity of an unmarked vehicle being made obtrusive by its armaments didn’t register. Gregor wasn’t certain he had ever thought of the logical inconsistency, although Simon was very good at preventing security from becoming self-defeating._

_It was nice, though, to see Miles laugh, even if it was about a potential security problem. Gregor knew that it couldn’t be too much of a threat if Miles was amused rather than annoyed. Miles and Sularenimon thought more of Gregor’s safety than their own. They seemed to view their security as an intriguing challenge to their ingenuity in slipping tails, In addition to other espionage skills that shouldn’t be practiced on one’s own bodyguards._

_Once they arrived at the Viceregal Palace the human-daemon pairs proceeded to Gregor’s suite after Gregor asked, “The Viceroy was telling me he had acquired some excellent Escobaran wine. Perhaps you might care to join me for a glass, Lord Vorkosigan?”_

_Miles and Sularenimon exchanged a series of lightning fast communicative looks before Miles sardonically answered with a formality that bordered on mockery, “Certainly, Sire.”_

_It didn’t matter whose rooms they chose; Miles’s quarters were across the hall from Gregor’s. The ImpSec Komarr security staff had strongly hinted that the two high-risk VIPs should be quartered near each other to make guard duty simpler._

_Gregor suspected that Miles would have argued about the placement if his emotional fortitude hadn’t been stretched to the breaking point by telling Gregor what Metzov had done to him and Sularenimon._

_And that was ignoring the emotional strain caused by the ex-General’s actions themselves._

_The idea of anyone touching Sularenimon without the raven daemon’s permission was…sickening, and forcing a human to touch another’s daemon was just as horrifying._

_What Gregor wanted to do more than anything else was run his fingers over Sularenimon’s sleek feathers while Miles buried his hands in Nalaresti’s fur and so reassert their claim to witch and daemon alike._

_But he couldn’t allow that impulse to become action. Acting too swiftly and without Miles’s permission would cost him the most precious thing to him in not only this universe, but the infinite universes beyond that._

_“What did you want to ask?” Miles asked the moment Gregor had dismissed the security escort to stand outside the suite._

_Gathering both Miles’s hands into one of his, Gregor paused before he managed to force the question out, “Miles…I know you wish to inherit from your father but…might it be better if you conceded your claim? At least for the time being?”_

_Gregor felt Miles go rigid._

_Neither he nor Sularenimon moved, not even to exchange glances. After what felt like eternity, the tension leeched from Miles, although Ren still held himself so stiffly that he looked like a jet carving of a raven._

_The lack of tension wasn’t comforting._

_Miles wasn’t relaxing into Gregor. Instead, it felt like some vital energy had seeped from the smaller man. Gregor was as rigid as Sularenimon by the time life began to return to Miles’s frame._

_After that infinite moment, Miles’s grey eyes lifted to meet Gregor’s. Gregor shuddered both at what he saw, and what he didn’t see._

_Miles’s voice was calm as the moment after a tornado, “Do you realize what that would mean?”_

_“No,” Gregor whispered, “But I need to understand. Tell me.”_

_“As a witch in my first lifetime, I have the legal duties of, and rights to, my birth position. That was part of the agreement formalized between Dorca and the Clans. Unpleasant things happen when witches forget that we only can… live… through contact with humanity and can only reproduce through the cooperation of full humans.”_

_“Witches can’t… I mean,” Nalaresti sounded unusually hesitant as she interrupted Miles’s explanation, “There are male witches. That you are rarer than female ones should not prevent witch-kind from…”_

_Miles heaved a great sigh, “You’d think so, but no. For whatever reason, witches are never sexually attracted to another witch. And even galactic geneering can’t produce a witch with two witches as the parents. Most attempts fail before the blastocyst can even be placed in a replicator. And the rare fetus that survives to term never becomes a witch.”_

_He paused briefly before continuing, “These surviving infants are always…damaged in some fashion, as well. More often mentally than physically,” Another deep pause, before Miles continued “Cavilo was an almost textbook example.”_

_That explained the myriad layers of emotional currents between Miles and the mercenary commander. And her granting permission to Metzov’s… ill-usage of Miles… was also accounted for, because for all of the woman’s insanity, she had seemed the type to value the sanctity of the daemon._

“Anyway,” Miles’s voice broke into Gregor’s brooding, “While a witch can never completely be a part of human society once she and her daemon have achieved separation, she cannot live apart from _human society, and a part of that is discharging the responsibilities we have towards our mortal families._

_Here he paused for dramatic effect, although Gregor thought Miles was so worked up that it wasn’t a conscious action, “And one who does not discharge these responsibilities can never be considered an adult. So, no. I will not consign myself to legal second-class citizenship for the rest of my life. Not when there are precedents that I can use to make a new form of an existing contract.”_

_There was no graceful response that could be made to that, so Gregor didn’t even try._

_Instead, he turned the conversation to Clan Law and its intersection with Barrayaran Common Law, the better to avoid sticking his foot in it in the future._

Gregor had learned more that night about Clan Law and the concessions the clans had won from Emperor Dorca than he had ever known before.

Including the fact that witches still dueled.

Oh, not to the death. Any dispute that necessitated (Miles’s wording) the death of a witch was never a matter to duel over; either the offended party assassinated her rival or the rival’s own kin did to keep the peace.

But a public challenge to the ability of a witch to defend what she laid claim to, by either word or deed was, under Clan law, a matter to put to a duel.

That was what Beatrix had meant when she asked if Miles demanded the twain. When witches dueled, they did so with knives and to second blood. And the mindset that produced such a custom was likely why Miles was throwing himself into this… row… with the Council with a focus that was downright terrifying.

Most of the more intelligent Counts with objections had caught wind of Miles’s mood and were keeping quiet and letting their more suicidally offended colleagues argue with him.

Which had still left an unhinged number of Counts arguing for the past three days.

The fact that Miles had solid historical precedent on his side had gotten some of the Counts to stop snarling and think for a moment, just as the detailed analysis Miles had given on the problems involved with even the replicator gestation of a child with parents whose daemons were the same sex, and the fact that in all recorded history, there had never been a successful ‘natural’ gestation had made others do the same.

Many of those Counts may have disliked the idea of a legal homosexual relationships, but just as many of them, especially the survivors of the Cetagandan Wars were above all else pragmatists, and the idea of a Countship dying because it lacked heirs was anathema.

And not only had Aral made it clear that Miles was his only choice as heir, but Ivan had proclaimed to the few Counts who sounded him out that he would rather emigrate to Athos than be named heir to the Vorkosigan Countship.

Gregor had never heard of Athos before and after he looked up the information on the planet, he wondered how the hell _Ivan_ knew about it. He suspected it was either a location suggested by Miles, who knew a great many unlikely things, or that Ivan had decided on a whim to find places he’d never want to move to.

In all probability, the answer was some of both.

The Counts most vehemently opposed on ideological grounds to the proposed solution were the middle aged and younger Independents and Conservatives.

And even with the historical precedents, most of them seemed to genuinely believe that War Marriage was a Betan perversion Miles was suggesting be brought to Barrayar from his off-world heritage and had no difficulty expressing such belief.

The irony would have been amusing if Gregor hadn’t recognized that Miles was almost homicidally insulted.

The older Counts, a fair number of whose grandfathers, and occasionally fathers, had maintained both a Public Spouse for heirs and a War Spouse for emotional intimacy (at a bare minimum), knew better. Hell, those Counts probably knew that Miles wasn’t demanding legal recognition for the sake of an argument, but also for the purpose of discharging the duties he had as a witch, one who happened to be a Count’s sole son and who was his heir by both birth and Count’s Choice, in his first lifetime.

Why those Counts weren’t pressing for greater advantage was a mystery Gregor had yet to unravel. He was taking a much greater hand in this matter than he usually did, but many of the silent watchers were men who wouldn’t permit themselves to be intimidated by Gregor’s Imperial power, however much he was throwing it around.

Then Miles went completely off script, apparently prompted by a particularly nasty comment by Count Vormoncrief.

…And that that he was bored with bludgeoning the Council with historical precedents, and had decided to use a touch of underhanded maneuvering.

Of course, that was par for the course with witches. According to Miles, duels between witches were similar to political maneuvering in the Council. Underhanded tactics were technically barred, but if you were able to get away with using them, you gained a lot of face for their successful execution.

“Of course, this entire charade is mere formality in any case, as this…august body has already recognized our War Marriage.”

As Gregor heard the stunned silence settle over the Council, he tried to calculate the odds of getting to kill Miles himself, or whether Lady Alys or Aral would beat him to it. At the moment, he was quite tempted to use his Imperial power to conclusively win the argument.

They had discussed the argument Miles had just dropped on the Council and had reached the conclusion that it had the potential to be more… inflammatory than they were prepared to deal with.

At least Gregor thought they had reached that conclusion. Miles had, apparently, reached a different one. Or his definition of ‘under no circumstances’ translated as ‘until you get bored and decide to invite assault in the Council chamber for a thrill.

Fortunately, even when the sound of furious denials, demands for an explanation and apology, and outraged bewilderment flooded in from all corners of the room, none of the Counts appeared likely to forget themselves and make an attempt to kill Miles immediately.

Once the onslaught of demands began to weigh most heavily in favor of explanation rather than pure outrage, Miles cut off the noise by simply raising one hand and giving the Counts a _Look_. Gregor was unsure whether the resultant silence came from an application of magic, Miles’s force of personality, or a combination of both.

Whatever caused it, it was impressive.

Taking stock of the Council, Gregor quickly categorized the Counts into supportively stunned, aghast, and resigned. He was surprised to find that Miles’s bombshell hadn’t lost them any supporters, and had even shifted a few of the older Conservatives into the ‘resigned’ category.

But then, why was it so surprising? Miles might have a reputation as a blunt instrument, but he’d been raised by two of the finest political minds on Barrayar and was a brilliant tactician, no matter the field of battle. Not to mention an expert at judging his moment to perfection.

There was the fluttering of wings as Sularenimon decided to come back from- wherever the daemon had hidden himself- to land at Gregor’s side. The formal camp-stool might not be a good place to land, but Ren still had access to his favorite perch; Nalaresti’s head.

Gregor could feel the interested gazes of a number of Counts and voting deputies as they recognized the familiarity indicated by the daemons’ positioning.

Now that Miles had the attention he’d demanded, he began to lay out the legal framework, “In Barrayaran law, only a legal spouse has a right to publically touch another’s daemon. And the only person allowed to touch the Emperor’s daemon, in public or private, is the Emperor’s legal spouse.”

Sularenimon picked up the thread from beside Gregor, a situation which the Council seemed to be getting acclimated to, “This ban, unlike a number of Barrayaran taboos, is law, and has been since the early Time of Isolation. The law itself is a part of Mstislav’s Law, the name indicating its age.”

Ren paused, allowing Miles to resume an apparently well-rehearsed explanation. Gregor’s resentment would have come back in full force… if he hadn’t been so fascinated by Miles and Sularenimon’s effect on the Council.

Besides, resenting Miles for being… Miles... was like resenting fire for burning you.

“Either human or daemon may initiate the contact. All that is required is that it be consensual on the part of all individuals.”

Once it was clear that Miles and Sularenimon were done with their ad hoc lecture, Count Vorhalas spoke, making his way down to the Speaker’s Circle as he did so, “While many of my colleagues would prefer to dispute the historical evidence, it appears incontrovertible. However, in matters such as this, all formalities must be addressed.”

While it might have surprised a fair number of the assembled Counts that Vorhalas was speaking in support of the union, it didn’t surprise Gregor. It had always seemed to him that the main points of contention between Aral Vorkosigan and Brock Vorhalas were personal, rather than political.

Gregor also had the oddest feeling that it was Miles who was turning the trick with Vorhalas here. He suspected if it had been any other person, Vorhalas would have baulked. But since the business three years ago, Count Vorhalas seemed to be oddly… _fond_ wasn’t quite the right word, and neither were amused, impressed, or even concerned. Whatever the emotion, Miles could get Vorhalas to do things no one else could.

Vorhalas continued after Miles ceded temporary control of the Circle to him, “As you said, Vorkosigan, War Marriage requires the consent of all parties. And while the Emperor’s daemon and you clearly have fulfilled that part of the bargain, there are two other parties who have not demonstrated a similar commitment.”

And now Gregor understood why Sularenimon had flown down and perched conveniently beside him.

As intimate as this sort of contact was, Gregor was still relieved that it appeared to be the last major hurdle being thrown up. And it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing an emperor had ever done to legitimize a marriage.

But still… without any acknowledgement of Count Vorhalas, Gregor turned to Ren. Carefully, he extended a hand so that it almost touched the raven daemon, halting only at the last moment to ask, “Do you consent?”

Ren’s response of, “Of course I do!” held more bravado than genuine enthusiasm, there was still enough truth present that Gregor understood the nervousness was a memory of recent events, rather than reluctance to experience _Gregor’s_ touch.

“Count Vorhalas, Count Vorpatril, Count Vorvolk if you would?” Gregor indicated that the two Counts should stand as witness that man and daemon actually made physical contact. 

Once the requested Counts had positioned themselves, Gregor reached out rested a hand on Sularenimon’s back, trailing a finger up to the feathery head for an enthusiastic head-scratch once they had adjusted to the flood of emotions and the knowledge of each other’s very beings. 

Gregor barely noticed the Counts verifying that his hands were actually making contact with Sularenimon. He’d missed this form of intimacy more than he could say. And with this, it might just be Miles’s confidence being passed on to him, but now… now he felt like everything was over except the shouting.

That they’d finally won the fight. At least for now.

And so it was. There were concessions, of course, but none that had been unforeseen and some of which were, in fact, hidden blessings.

An official betrothal period of five years before the union could be formalized and children started. The opening of discussion with the Clans as to how best to integrate the structures of witch and human societies. The rejection of some Progressive bills that Gregor had judged unlikely to get through anyway, although Cordelia wouldn’t be happy about the rejection of the three women’s related ones.

If the Council was serious about integrating witches more fully into mortal Barrayaran society, those bills would end up back on the table soon enough, anyway...

…and a harder line on the subject of reparations paid to Escobar for the War.

Miles had the oddest expression when the last was brought up that made Gregor think the Council had just been maneuvered into giving Miles a reason for doing what he wanted to anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Through Dark to Light_ ends here. My thanks to all my patient readers for putting up with the very scattered posting of this. More stories should follow shortly, as currently under development are:
> 
> _Primal_ \- a look at Dag Benin
> 
> _Beast of Burden_ \- a look at Ivan
> 
> _Forever Young_ \- Miles's thoughts on Gregor's aging and his own lack thereof
> 
> _Covalent_ \- the story of Miles's trip to Earth for the prosecution of the Betan and Escobaran authorities which was started in _War Crimes_
> 
> and several other stories that have no titles as yet.

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn't clear, samye and sierdtsy are modifications of the Russian words for most and heart.


End file.
